Take the weight of me
by IAmNotOneOfThem
Summary: Letters from Mycroft to Sherlock, John could have dealt with that. But not with a secret hidden in the brothers' past and blood on each letter. What does Mycroft hide? Mystrade, slight Johnlock, warning: mention of child abuse, cutting etc.
1. Lost in the playground

_Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling tears running over his cheeks. Normally, he would wipe them away, pretending that his eyes had been watering and that he just was allergic to something in his surroundings, but this time, he let them drop from his chin onto his feet or the grass in front of him. One drop after another, slowly falling down until he wasn't able to see them anymore._

_It was cold, far to cold to run around in his pyjamas with bare feet and no jacket or coat, but he didn't care. He enjoyed the cold breeze on his skin, the feeling of cutting blades scratching in his flesh until there was blood. Maybe the pain would go away when he entered the house again, watching the stars from his window and not from the outdoors. Maybe he would be able to close his eyes and to pretend nothing had happened. Maybe people would believe him that he was okay - okay in his interpretation, for them, he was just someone who was strange - and they would leave him alone like always._

_He felt weak, like a little puppy waiting for someone to bring him inside again. It was foolish to think they would care enough - they had proven him wrong so many times that he had already lost count. They wouldn't notice that he had left until he came inside again and they would probably ignore him because of some important guest. Politicians, people with more influence than brains who still ran the government._

_He gulped and tried to fight off a sob. They had told him just this morning, five hours had passed since then and it was the first time he was alone to let his emotions run free. Some would laugh at him, tell him that he was just a silly, little boy worrying to much. Others would try to comfort him, to tell him that everything would be okay and that no one could hurt him anymore._

_He wasn't hurt._

_His brother was, but no one cared for him._

_They just saw the crying, little boy in front of the gigantic manor and thought he might be alone; their house was at the border of Britain, far away from any other children or people his age with his interests. He had never been lonely, he enjoyed the silence. And he had his brother that was enough company for him. He didn't need any friends, dumb and silly, boys trying to mock the girls with frogs or jokes that only they, with their infantile minds, thought were funny._

_People thought it was strange that a boy at the age of five enjoyed the company of his 12-yeared old brother, but for them, it was fine. No rivalry, no arguments or screaming because they destroyed each other's toys. Their toys were too expensive, microscopes, telescopes and books older than their father would ever be, his alcohol addiction damaging his liver and killing him slowly._

_Sherlock had a calendar and he marked every day his father would look ill or vomit with a smiley, every normal day with a black cross. He waited patiently._

_His brother was the only friend he needed, intelligent and smarter than Sherlock, calm and friendly to everyone, even people Mycroft hated - Sherlock didn't know them yet, but he never doubted his brother's appraisal - and for whom he would never smile willing., He was already being schooled at home, and he taught Sherlock everything he knew or was taught during his lessons._

_They spoke German, French and Spanish together because their parents weren't able to understand them. It was their secret language to keep things concealed from them, moments when Sherlock stole their father's computer and they would easily hack it to use the internet, or moments when they stole their Mummy's diary just to see if she finally was brave enough to get a divorce._

_Mycroft was the only person Sherlock was able to love._

_And then his brother started to get quiet, never saying a word to anyone who wasn't Sherlock. He once told him that he wanted to speak, but he just couldn't - something inside his soul wanted him to be lonely, wanted him to get desperate and need to talk to people. Mycroft wasn't like Sherlock, he enjoyed company he could deduce and embarrass behind their backs. But he changed and Sherlock began to worry._

_Their parents didn't notice the change. Puberty, they said when Sherlock asked them if there was something wrong with his brother, it was the hormone's fault. Mycroft started to hide in his room, turning the lights off until it was dark, until he wasn't able to see anything. Sometimes, when Sherlock came back from his violin lessons, he was able to hear crying. Muted, like Mycroft didn't want him to hear it._

_He didn't laugh anymore. He just smiled when Sherlock did something great, like hacking into father's new computer with better safety guard or when he had finally been able to play the new composition of Mozart without any interruptions, and patted his head, told him in short sentences that he was proud of him. Sherlock asked him if he was okay and Mycroft lied, told him he was fine, just a bit tired._

_Sherlock started to watch him in the night - he didn't need the sleep, he was allowed to rest during the day - when he was sleeping. Mycroft never closed his eyes, he starred at the ceiling and covered his mouth with his hands. He tried to force himself to stay quiet. Sherlock knew he tried to be silent for his little brother sleeping in the room next to his, his brother with the sensitive ears, able to hear anything which wasn't normal. Crying wasn't normal, especially during the night when one was supposed to sleep._

_He tried to warn his parents, tried to tell their nanny that there was something wrong with Mycroft, but who want to believe a little child? They thought his imagination was going wild, showing him dragons, and mermaids, and a crying brother._

_He had liked his nanny, she had always been kind and sweet to them, but from that day on, he hated her with a passion no child should be able to feel. She quit one week after that day, a nervous wreck close to a break-down._

_Mycroft knew that Sherlock was the cause of her termination, but he didn't sell him out._

_When Sherlock had been four and Mycroft eleven, Mycroft would only leave his room to go out with Sherlock. They would go into their garden, watching the gardener take care of their roses, daisies and sunflowers, never talking. They just sat in the grass, Sherlock on Mycroft's lap, the elder's hand stroking the younger's curly hair, and they both knew these were the moments worth living for._

"_Unsere Eltern ignorieren uns," Sherlock said and lent back to let the back of his head rest against Mycroft's chest. "Sie haben eine neue Nanny gefunden. (1)"_

_Mycroft didn't say anything, he sat still like a statue, and the only evidence that he was a living creature was the raising of his chest and the heartbeat right next to Sherlock's head. Sherlock turned around and wrapped his arms around his brother. He could feel some tears dropping on his skin, but he didn't say anything about them and neither did Mycroft. They just sat there, both with the knowledge that they needed each other._

_Sherlock knew that something had happened between his brother and their father before his birth. There was always something strange and dangerous shining in father's eyes, like a predator waiting until his prey made its final mistake and he could close in for the kill. Mycroft always tried to avoid father, he quickly left the room whenever Father came in or he starred at the wall or his book, he sometimes tried to pretend that he was asleep. Father never noticed, he just circled around Mycroft, examining him like food._

_Mycroft always stiffened when father touched him, sometimes just a hastily caress over his shoulder, sometimes a squeeze of the hand, now and then the stroking of his ginger hair. Mycroft never jerked back or ran away, but Sherlock saw the fear in his eyes, shining tears and a trembling lower lip. Mummy never noticed. Sherlock did and it made him sick._

_He was too young to understand why Mycroft feared their father so much. He never hurt them, never screamed at them because he was away all the time, travelling to America, China or France, the only times he was at home were when he was meeting with important people. When Sherlock had been three, Mycroft was forced to participate._

_Sherlock always watched them from a bush in front of the gigantic window. Mycroft sat next to his father, between him and Mummy, and the old men and women around him. They talked, drank wine and champagne right in front of a child. Sherlock was young, but even he understood that this wasn't right. They smoked, they laughed, they talked about dirty gossip, about the newest affairs of a rich man in the US - they described how he shagged his new mistress right in front of his wife. And Mycroft had to listen to everything, he had to watch and learn because father wanted Mycroft to be like him in the future._

_Cold. Ice-cold without a heart. An android created to earn money and to run the country._

_The windows were always closed, but he had been able to lip-read since he was two – Mycroft had taught him. It was a useful skill that he was proud of, how easily he could read everything they said, even if they all talked at the same time because everything slowed down when he concentrated on the movements. Like slow motion._

_The last time he'd heard Mycroft's voice had been five days after his birthday. No one celebrated it with him because Mummy was crying in her room because of a negative pregnancy test and Daddy was in Africa, bribing some politicians to enslave the people. All for the money, he used to say, all for glory, money and a nice car waiting in the garage. They had five cars and father never used one of them._

_Sherlock had been lonely with his cake, the one he had stolen from a bakery thirty minutes away from their home, and the candle burning at the top of it. There were arms around him and suddenly someone kissed his cheek. The low, beautiful voice of his brother spoke directly next to his ear and he still remembered every single word of the whispered promise._

"_Regardless what I will do, brother," Mycroft said, he sounded sad and his voice was shaking, "it won't be your fault. Happy birthday, Sherlock, enjoy it."_

_He sat down next to Sherlock and turned his head to look at him, faking a smile that both boys knew wasn't honest, but it was fine for now. Sherlock was glad he had come. That was all that mattered._

_Sherlock blew the candle out and smiled. Mycroft gave him a tiny present, wrapped in golden paper with silk ribbons painted on it. It was an old pocket watch, expensive and unique with the engraving 'Enjoy it as long as you can.' When Sherlock had been four, he thought that these words were good, that Mycroft wanted him to be happy all the time for the rest of his life._

_Now he knew he wanted him to enjoy his life before it was over._

_The fifth day after his birthday was a sad one. Daddy came home and dragged Mycroft into his room, locking the door and drawing the curtains. Sherlock heard crying and shouting, but didn't knew what happened. Father stormed out of the room one hour later, his knuckles red and scratch-marks on his arms and cheek. Sherlock ran inside._

_There was a whimpering body on the floor, lying in a pool of blood and tears. _

_Mycroft._

_His brother jerked back when he tried to touch him, telling him to get out because father would come back. When Sherlock asked him why Daddy hurt him, he could see resignation in the bright eyes of his brother. He wiped away Sherlock's tears, running over his cheeks unnoticed by Sherlock, and looked down._

"_Leave," his brother said and, if Sherlock had known it at the time he would have begged him to say more, his last words for a few years were spoken with a trembling voice, "Please, leave."_

_And Sherlock, the little child, innocent and naïve, thought his brother didn't want him to be there. That he didn't want him to comfort him because he hated his little brother more than their own father._

_Sherlock left._

_He had regretted the choice every day since then._

_Because, one year later, they didn't speak a word to each other. Mycroft never left his room again, and if he did, he only left when Sherlock wouldn't see it. Sherlock stopped watching his dreams because he was huffish and disappointed, thinking that Mycroft hated him. So he hated him, because it was easier to live with someone in the same house when you hate him too. He left the room when his brother entered, he stopped speaking other languages and he would never look his brother in the eyes again._

_Maybe this was the reason why he didn't notice how desperate Mycroft had become. How broken, lonely, and tired. Five days after Sherlock's first day with his teachers, he entered Mycroft's room to find it empty._

_Mycroft was nowhere, not in the house nor in the garden. Sherlock ran to his parents, they told him that Mycroft had moved out. He was a genius, already finished school and able to live on his own. Because people thought he was clever enough, intelligent and grown-up._

_Sherlock laughed dryly, the sound mixed with tears and a scream. No one heard him because his brother was far away and his parents had already left again, flying to Jamaica. He lifted his arms and clutched his head, digging his fingers in his skin until it started to bleed._

_When his parents came back five weeks later, their son had changed. The happy child became a silent, angry one, too smart for his own good and with no brother to tame him anymore. The beast was born and the beauty was gone, far away with his own grief and pain._

_Mycroft wrote letters, only for Sherlock in which he told him he was fine, that he already had an apprenticeship training in the government because of their father. That he was glad Sherlock seemed to manage and that he knew that his brother hated him. But this was how life works, he wrote and the letters blurred because of Sherlock's tears, it never was fair and Mycroft had to work, had to get a high position to protect his brother._

_He asked him if Sherlock would forgive him._

_Sherlock never answered._

_On one of the letters was a little red spot. Sherlock didn't care, he destroyed the letter without reading it._

Mycroft still wrote him, even if they lived in the same city and he visited Sherlock almost every day.

He always asked Sherlock if he could forgive him. Sherlock never answered, he always destroyed the letters without opening them. John saw them, but he never dared to ask. He saw the tears shining in Sherlock's eyes, saw the shaking of his fist, he just made some tea and talked about nonsense distracting Sherlock.

He never opened them.

This was the reason why he was almost the last person to notice that Mycroft wasn't happy with his life.

John was the first.

He opened one of the letters and saw the blood next to the tiny letters, five drops next to the question 'Will you ever forgive me, brother?'

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><p>(1) Our parents are ignoring us. They found a new nanny.<p>

* * *

><p>I don't know how this idea came into my mind, to be honest. I just listened to "Rubik's cube" by Athlete and the plot crossed my mind, forced me to run down to my PC and to start writing this.<p>

I hope you'll like it, it's going to be dark and dramatic, with sadness, tears, blood and love.

* * *

><p>Thanks to SilentEyedKat for beta-reading.<p> 


	2. I'm so intent to find out what it is

John never worried about Sherlock when he was at their flat.

He knew that Mycroft watched them every second and - even if it was creepy and he was afraid that Sherlock's brother had cameras in the bathroom - would never let someone hurt his brother. They hated each other, but Sherlock could call and Mycroft would come.

Sometimes he was worried about Sherlock's ignorance of the needs of his body. He barely slept, only a few hours every week, and never ate unless John forced him to. He didn't need that, he told John angry, it slowed his mind down, made his thoughts go fuzzy and blurred.

No, John wasn't worried about that anymore. He knew how to deal with it.

However, he was worried about the letters Sherlock got.

They arrived every week, on Wednesday at 10 o'clock in the morning. John only saw Sherlock acknowledge the letters once, he would look at the envelope, expression blank and eyes half-closed. He tore it apart within seconds and burned the pieces. After that, John never saw the letters again, but he knew that Sherlock got them. There was always something different in Sherlock's mood, a silent-calling voice begging for help, a shining in his eyes of tears he would never let go.

It continued for twelve weeks until John stood up for Sherlock.

The detective slept in his own bed, John had locked the room from the outside to stop him from going out before he had at least eight hours of sleep. Both knew that John was worried about the letters, but Sherlock - always the cold sociopath he alleged to be - never said anything about that. He never seemed to notice John, standing in the doorframe while Sherlock destroyed another letter.

John's hands were shaking as he carefully took the letter, not wanting to cause any harm or leave tracks Sherlock would notice immediately. He sat down on the couch, eyes locked on the door. He was afraid Mrs Hudson might come in and see him with the letter, she brought them now and then when Sherlock was too lazy to go downstairs to their post-box and knew what they looked like, and would ask questions.

He looked at his watch and sighed in relief. She wouldn't be awake now, it was 9 o'clock and the letter was already here. Maybe the writer wanted him to find it, but that was impossible, maybe he hoped Sherlock would continue with his fight against the sleep. Anyway, John was glad that he had got the paper before Sherlock.

He wouldn't say he was curious, just worried. It could be anyone: A stalker, some sick freak trying to get to Sherlock, insulting and threatening him. John just wanted to make sure Sherlock was fine. He wasn't curious, not one bit.

His hands were shaking as he opened the envelope, slowly pulling the letter out. The first thing he noticed was the absolutely white paper, not one flaw or bend, perfect like it had just been bought. The second thing he noticed was that he'd been wrong, there were flaws on the paper.

Red, faded like the paper was already soaked in it. He ran his hands slowly over it, it was dry, but didn't feel like anything he could think of at this moment. Some kind of juice, maybe, but he lent down and sniffed - no, there was no smell of fruit, there was no smell at all. He was only able to smell the paper and a perfume he recognized from somewhere, but he couldn't put a finger on it.

He lent back and shook his head, he shouldn't be worried about red flaws on a paper, the writer could have cut himself with it, which was nothing unusual. He could ask Greg sometime if he could check in their database if there was a sample of this DNA in it, there was no need to worry.

As soon as he started to read, he felt watched. He knew that Mycroft had cameras installed in here, and that Sherlock never destroyed them although he knew where they were, and that the elder Holmes could watch him at this moment. Nonsense, Mycroft had been here yesterday to tell Sherlock he had to travel to France for a week, it was impossible that Mycroft was watching him now. Recording everything, yes, but not watching personally.

It surprised him that the writer of this letter was Mycroft. John didn't dare read it, but he knew the handwriting of Sherlock's brother by heart. He stared at it, frowning and titling his head. Why would Mycroft write letters to Sherlock if they saw each other almost every day? Why would they write one another if they didn't get along?

The red liquid didn't lessen his confusion one bit.

Contrary, it made it worse.

He knew Mycroft, mostly because of kidnappings and talks on the phone because of Sherlock, and he knew that he wasn't clumsy. There was no way he would cut himself with something as simple as a piece of paper. John was a doctor after all, the angle of the drops indicated an injury on the wrist or forearm, not on a finger. Mycroft was right handed, or he at least preferred to write with his right hand - John honestly had no idea - and the drops were on the left side of the paper, directly next to the words 'Will you ever forgive me, brother?'

Whatever Mycroft had done, it had to have been big.

Maybe it was the reason why they hated each other? It was possible, not even geniuses hated each other with the passion that the Holmes brothers loathed one another with.

Maybe Mycroft was a bad brother, and hurt Sherlock with anything he could get. Or he had ignored the younger Holmes at times when he needed the advice of his brother. There were a multitude of possibilities and each was worse than the last.

He tried to think about a way to save the blood for a DNA test, but he found none. He couldn't just cut the part with the blood out, Sherlock would notice and then he would be angry, and it was too risky to smuggle it out of the flat. Sherlock was a master at breaking locks. John needed a plan and he needed it now. Maybe he could ask Sherlock, he read John's letters after all – he had every right to read Sherlock's. But he didn't want him to find out he knew about the blood on the letter and that Mycroft was begging for absolution.

He heard a moan, muted and hushed. Sherlock would be awake soon and John had to hide the letter. He did the first thing he could think of, rumpled the paper and hid it in his pocket. Sherlock opened the door, John hadn't even heard him break the lock, and looked at him.

"Bring milk," he said simply, pointing at John's coat that the ex-army doctor already held in his hands and left again. "I need more for my experiment."

"You have a new one?" John asked, putting his coat on and walking to the stairs, "Wha- you know what? Never mind, I'll just buy some more."

He left quickly, feeling Sherlock's gaze on his back. He lent against the wall next to the front door and sighed in relief, Sherlock didn't notice that he had taken the letter. At least, not yet. That meant John had enough time to go to Greg and ask him if he could check the DNA. He was pretty sure it was Mycroft's blood, but he needed proof.

Something wasn't right here and he needed to find out what.

John quickly hailed a cab and told the driver where he wanted to go. He could see Sherlock from the corner of his eye, watching him from the window. He frowned and turned his head away, there was no need to make Sherlock suspicious. He normally fought more against Sherlock's wasteful handling of food. He silently prayed that Sherlock wouldn't realize that he'd taken the letter.

He knew that Mycroft would talk about him soon; maybe he already was on his way home because his assistant called him. John was sure that Mycroft checked Sherlock and his flat every day, even if he wasn't in the same country as they were.

A little voice in John's head told him that he should be worried, Mycroft was always nice to him, charming and polite, but this letter wasn't meant for John's eyes and he knew it.

The cab stopped and he pushed away thoughts of Mycroft and his revenge. He got out and ran to Greg's office, the DI was sitting behind his desk much to John's relief. The older man looked up as soon as John entered without knocking, a habit he unconsciously copied from Sherlock, and put his files away.

"John… how may I help you?" he asked confused. "Is there something wrong with Sherlock?"

John smiled and shook his head. "No… well, not exactly… it's about his brother."

Greg frowned and entwined his fingers. "Mycroft Holmes? The man in the suit and with the brolly?" John nodded and Greg lent back, still looking confused. "What's wrong with him?"

The ex-army doctor pulled out the letter and gave it to Greg who opened it and read it. His expression changed from confused to curious and finally to worry. He stared at a spot, probably the place where the blood drops were. He lowered his arms and raised an eyebrow.

"What is this?" he asked his voice serious and calm. "Don't tell me you stole a letter from Sherlock Bloody Holmes."

John just shrugged and took the letter again, holding it like important evidence. "I did, yes, but I'm sure you noticed the blood on it. I think there's something wrong. I'm worried about it, Sherlock never opens the letters, and he just destroys them without looking at them."

"Maybe his brother just cut himself with the paper?" Greg asked him, his voice calm.

He wasn't worried, of course, he didn't know Mycroft, they had only seen each other once or twice in their entire lives. Greg didn't need to worry about Sherlock's brother, but John did. A feeling inside his chest told him that something wasn't right here, that there was something hidden in the past, something had happened between the brothers that had torn them apart.

"You've seen him, does he look like someone who cuts himself accidently with something as ordinary as paper?" Greg lent back and shrugged. John was close to exploding. "Greg, I'm telling you, there's something bad going on here! Something Sherlock doesn't notice because something happened between them, something bad enough to make Mycroft Holmes – fucking, bloody Mycroft Holmes – beg!"

Greg sighed and rubbed his face. He looked tired, absolutely exhausted and John felt guilty for annoying him with something like this. But it scared him, the knowledge that there was something wrong. The blood, the angle and the little voice in his head telling him that his suspicion might be true…

"Fine, I'll help you," Greg finally said and John sighed in relief. "I'll send the letter to forensics, they'll check the blood. Until then, what do you want to do?"

"Excuse me?" John said taken off-guard, he blinked in surprise.

"Do you want to break into his flat or manor or whatever? Because I know you, John, you won't stop until you are sure everything is alright." Greg tried to smile, but he failed badly, he fought off a yawn just in time. "But I won't break into a government worker's house that would be suicidal."

"He's currently not in the country," John said, but turned around to check if the camera in Greg's office was watching them. Of course it was, but it didn't move as he stood up to walk to the opposite corner. "And he's probably not watching us."

"Why should he be?" Greg asked. John tried his best not to groan. Greg didn't know that Mycroft watched him. It was far from pleasant, but he had already gotten used to it. "Hold on... he's watching us?"

"He watches Sherlock and me all the time, I don't know how often he spies on you. But that's not important right now, we need to get in his house or flat or manor, whatever it is. I have the address, I stole it from Sherlock, we can go there now."

Greg sighed and entwined his fingers. "John, listen, I know that you're scared because of the blood, but there might be a normal reason. One that doesn't involve whatever you think he did."

John didn't listen to him. He grabbed Greg's hand and dragged him with him, out of the building and to Greg's car. He took the address out, a place outside of London - a twenty minute drive. Greg turned the engine on and drove; John sat next to him and stared at the copy of the letter Greg had quickly made before they had left. It still surprised him how easily he had gotten the letter. Sherlock didn't seem to be worried about them, maybe it was some kind of joke, but John knew that Mycroft was always deadly-serious. And the blood. He wasn't able to get it out of his mind, the red liquid, gooey and dry.

Maybe it really was nothing more than a little cut, a paper-cut could happen to anyone. But Mycroft Holmes wasn't just anyone. No Sherlock's brother was the personification of grace, poshness come alive. An ice-cold, inhuman being.

"Why didn't you ask Sherlock about the letters?" Greg asked him after a few minutes of unpleasant silence. "He probably would have told you."

John shook his head before he let it rest against the cold window. "No… I think he would have burned it in front of my eyes. He does that every time, but I… I always see his tears and I want to find out why. I'm worried about him. Something is bothering him and the source seems to be his brother."

"So you have to play the knight in shining armour and save him and his brother from the big bad dragon called past?" Greg turned his head to look at John for a few seconds before watching the empty street in front of them again. "I wonder why there's no traffic…"

John jerked up. No traffic? He looked out of the window in front of them and frowned. No cars. That was unusual. He turned around and groaned. Of course. A black car right behind them, which had probably been following them since they had left Scotland Yard. So Mycroft had been watching them or Sherlock had called him, which was highly unlikely.

"Bloody hell," he cursed and ran his fingers through his hair, "you saw the car?"

Greg checked the rear mirror and frowned. "I thought he was in France…?"

John sighed. "I thought so too. We were wrong, obviously."

The black car sped up until it was in front of them. Greg stopped before they crashed into it, turned the engine off and sighed. He and John left their car as soon as Mycroft's assistant got out of the black one. She smiled at them and gestured to the car.

"Would you be so kind and get into the car, gentlemen?" she asked politely, but her voice sounded demanding.

John knew that they didn't have a chance. He got into the car peacefully while Greg had to be dragged into it; the woman was stronger than her looks led one to believe. He cursed the whole time, swearing and shouting, insulting Mycroft Holmes the whole time. The car stopped in front of a warehouse. John wasn't surprised; Mycroft seemed to have a fondness for abandoned places.

The woman guided them inside. Mycroft was standing there, hands hidden in his pockets, his brolly hanging from his left arm. He smiled, but even John could see that it was faked. A farce, acted, studied. He was the born politician and he knew it like everyone else did. Greg raised his eyebrow and opened his mouth to start shouting at Mycroft, but a single wave of the politician's hand silenced him. John was surprised to see that Mycroft wore gloves, black ones not fitting his suit.

"John, Detective Inspector, it's a pleasure," Mycroft said and titled his head. "Even if the circumstances could be better, don't you agree?"

John just snorted and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Don't try to seduce us, Mycroft. We know why we are here."

Mycroft didn't show any emotion. His face seemed to be frozen, not showing what was going on inside his brilliant mind. Not even Sherlock was able to deduce him correctly; Mycroft had proven that quite often. But everyone was able to see that it was faked, a false smile.

"Directly to the unpleasant topics? If you insist, John." Mycroft said, stretching every single word like someone trying to stay calm. "I want you to give me the letter. Now, if you don't mind."

"He minds, in fact, I do too," Greg said and hissed angrily. "Look, I don't care if you're the government like Sherlock says or if you're just a politician who thinks that he runs the world, but you can't order us arou-"

John stopped Greg with a hand over his mouth. Greg mumbled something, but stayed quiet. Just in time, John thought, Mycroft's eyes got darker in a way which reminded John an awful lot of Sherlock when he was about to scream and shout. No one ever dared to talk to Mycroft like that, only Sherlock but he was his brother and he was used to it, especially not a Detective Inspector who didn't know him. John fought off a grin, they would be perfect for each other - in a kind of sadistic way.

"Thank you John," Mycroft said and lifted his right arm to reach out for the letter, ignoring the fact that John was standing a good distance away from him. "Now, if you would be so kind, I want to return that letter to my brother."

John sighed and walked towards him. When the paper was inches from Mycroft's hand, he stopped. He was about to make a deal, Mycroft could probably see it in his eyes, because he swung the brolly and smiled at him. The elder Holmes liked deals, he worked and lived with them after all, he was a master at them and John had to be careful if he didn't want to be fooled.

"I'm going to give it to you under two conditions," he whispered quietly. "First: You'll give me a plausible reason for why there's blood on the letter. Second: I want to see your wrists and upper arms."

"Why would you want to check my wrists, John?" Mycroft asked, but was already rolling his sleeves up so that John could see his wrists.

Nothing. Not a single scar, mark or anything backing up John's conclusion. He growled quietly, took the arm and examined it at close range. Nothing. He frowned and tried to tune out Mycroft staring at him, eyes cold and shining, teeth gritted. He was hiding something, John knew it, but he couldn't figure out what. He let go and Mycroft unbuttoned his waistcoat before taking it off. Greg kept silent the whole time, watching everything with a frown, like Mycroft's assistant.

John helped Mycroft to roll up his sleeves. He examined Mycroft's upper arm, but again - nothing. Mycroft dressed himself again, smiling down at John like he was a naïve and innocent, stupid child. John gave him the letter, growled and turned around to get into the car again.

"Thank you, John," Mycroft said and swung the umbrella, the movement only watched by Greg who shook his head to come of his trance. "It was a pleasure, Detective Inspector." He nodded to Greg and turned around, moving away into the shadows of the warehouse. "But I'm afraid I have to go now, there's somebody awaiting me in my office."

John had already closed the door. Thousands of thoughts crossed his mind, that maybe it had only been a paper-cut, nothing serious or suspicious. But there was a feeling inside his stomach, a knot reminding him painfully that his instincts were never wrong. He'd never been, not even when Sherlock was messing around. He was right, but he didn't have any evidence.

"That Mycroft is strange," Greg whispered - Mycroft's assistant wasn't with them this time. "I thought he was going to kill you."

"He wouldn't hurt Sherlock like that," John smiled at him, before frowning again. "I think he's hiding something. He probably already knows that he only got a copy, right? So why didn't he stop us?"

* * *

><p>He looked down at his skin, red-coloured because of blood, and smiled. The pain was awful, agonising and worse than usual - the cut was deeper and more aggressive. He was angry at himself because it had been foolish to believe that no one would find out. The person he had never expected to notice had gotten close, too close for his own good.<p>

The knife fell out of his hands.

He stopped the bleeding, a few minutes later nothing but a scar reminded of what he'd done. He carefully took out a little box and speckled the cream over the scar, hiding it beneath make-up. He gently rubbed over it, checked if it would smear.

As soon as he'd pulled his sleeve down again, he pressed the red button.

"You may send Mr Calen in, my dear," he said, smiling at the person entering his room, and hid the knife in the desk drawer where no one would find it.

_His own little secret._

* * *

><p>Thanks to SilentEyedKat for beta-reading this.<em><br>_


	3. I will figure it out

_Sometimes it was hard to believe that he wasn't angry at him. He often looked at himself in the mirror, examining the bruises and scars, his pale and skinny body covered with little dots where the nails had left their marks, and asked himself what he had done wrong._

_Perhaps he shouldn't have started to deduce the people around him, in the manor, outside when they took him to the village or to important meetings. People stared at him when he told them he knew about their affairs and that they liked chocolate only because of a little brown dot on their fingers. His mother always acted like she was proud._

_But Daddy was always angry._

_He always dragged him into his room, locked the door and did those things to him._

_Told him that he deserved it, that it was his right to do it._

_He was young, no one could blame him for believing it._

_Naïve._

_But he was only a child. So everything his father told him was real, that he was scum, worth nothing. Not even worth living. And he punched him in the face, laughing when tears ran over his cheeks, when he wasn't able to talk anymore because there was blood in his mouth and he had to throw up. He laughed and laughed until there were tears of joy and amusement and he dragged him on the bed, banging his head against the wooden board until he felt dizzy and couldn't do anything against the torture coming for him._

_But hey… he deserved it, right?_

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

Greg didn't know what to think about this whole… case. He had never met Mycroft Holmes before, he had once had the 'pleasure' of a call with him but that had only been a phone call no longer than five minutes. The voice indicated a high-ranked member of the society, someone with power and who had the pleasure of higher education. A politician, charming and brilliant.

The man he had seen today was everything he'd imagined, but something different too.

Something dark, twisted and hidden under ice and ignorance of his own emotions - like Sherlock when he tried to banish everything human in his mind. But instead of hiding it behind sociopathic behaviour, Mycroft Holmes tried to appear posh and polite no matter what.

When John had demanded he pull his sleeves up, his lips had been twitching, his fingers clenching around the brolly like it was the only thing keeping him from drowning. Greg had only seen someone looking as desperate as the man twice in his life: The first time when his younger sister had tried to kill herself because her husband cheated on her with a younger woman. The second time when he had to interrogate a young bloke who had tried to hang himself.

But as fast as the emotions appeared, they vanished again and Mycroft Holmes smiled down at John while the ex-army doctor looked at his wrists. Greg hadn't been able to see anything, but John's reaction spoke louder than words. Confusion, anger.

Greg didn't know Mycroft as well as John did, but he still knew that something was wrong. There had been a shining in the blue-grey eyes of Mycroft Holmes and it still haunted Greg's mind, even two hours after the meeting in the warehouse.

John was already back in his flat, shouting at Sherlock and demanding answers he knew he would never get. He couldn't let this rest, the feeling inside his stomach was too strong.

And Greg found himself in the same predicament.

Because, no matter how hard he tried to busy himself with something else, he wasn't able to forget the worry he felt when he had seen the elder Holmes's expression. Darkness, sadness, anger, everything he tried to banish.

He wasn't a fool and neither was John, they both knew that there were ways to hide scars perfectly, so that not even a doctor was able to see them. John hadn't touched the skin and he regretted it now. But while John had someone to talk to about this, Greg did not.

He sat alone in his flat, staring at the TV while he waited for the files about the blood on the letters. He was sure it was Mycroft's, there was no other explanation for it. But why… and why only a few drops? If, and he wasn't sure whether to doubt it or not, he cut himself, there had to be more than a few drops. A lot of more, a whole pool of the liquid on the letter. He didn't know how, but he was sure there was a way to make sure that someone wouldn't lose too much blood.

And the Holmeses were smart, after all.

He groaned, rubbed his face with his hands and tried to listen to the woman on screen crying because of her husband, who had left her. How perfectly it reminded him of his own situation. Greg tried to find the remote, but couldn't - he was stuck with the annoying and whimpering woman. Too noisy, too loud. Why would someone want to watch this?

John was probably fighting against Sherlock's stubbornness now, screaming at him because he wanted to know what was going on. Greg just wanted to sleep without the image of a posh, dapper man haunting his thoughts. There was no need to think about the eyes, the bright and shining blue and grey looking at him with that cute smile… there really was no need, he told himself angrily and stood up to get into his bed, really, absolutely no use and need.

As he stood, wanting to go into his bedroom, something stopped him. A twist in his stomach, not painful for his body, but for his mind. A reminder, the instinct that something was wrong. He didn't know what. He honestly had no idea and it freaked him out a bit. Normally, his instincts only warned him about direct danger - someone aiming for his head or chest, a knife in the pocket of a suspect - but now…

Maybe there was a new case, he told himself and he was about to grab his coat when he hesitated. Sally would have called him already. No, it couldn't be something having to do with the Yard. So what…?

Mycroft Holmes.

It made sense, somehow. He hadn't stopped thinking about the posh man since he had gotten back from the warehouse, maybe he was focussed on him - some kind of radar warning him if something was wrong. Sherlock would laugh at him, would tell him that there was no such thing as radars to tell you if something was wrong with other people. But Greg still knew something was wrong and he had to find out what.

He grabbed his coat and gun, ran to his car, and drove to the direction of the politician's home. He vaguely remembered the direction, but not the exact address. Cursing, he took out his cell phone and called John - it was almost noon, John had to be home.

"Greg, what is it?" he was greeted by John's angry and shaking voice. He and Sherlock had been fighting the whole time, Greg thought and bit his lower lip. John sighed. "I'm sorry for snapping at you. Is something wrong?"

"Yes… I…" Greg hesitated and looked at the street in front of him. "I have a feeling something bad is going on. With Mycroft. I wanted to ask you where his house is, I can't remember the address."

"Something wrong?" John repeated slowly, "What do you mean?"

"I've got a feeling," Greg told him, quickly hiding his phone as a police car passed, "I have to check."

John went into another room, Greg could hear the sounds of steps and a door, then someone screaming at another person he wasn't able to hear and the sound of a door being closed abruptly. He told Greg the address and hung up without another word. Greg just sighed and turned the car around, heading in the opposite direction.

The house was just as he had expected it to be: Big, ridiculous posh and expensive. Something which suited the politician perfectly. No guards or huge men standing in front of the entrance door. Maybe they were inside, but that didn't matter.

The feeling in his stomach had increased; a big knot combined with emotional pain. He shivered, not because of the weather which was quite pleasant and warm, and walked to the door. He hesitated; should he knock or just break in? Whatever was happening in there, and he was sure it involved Mycroft Holmes and something he shouldn't know about, he wouldn't be able to find it out if Mycroft knew that he was there.

Breaking in, then.

He wasn't as good as Sherlock, but better than others or civilians. It took him two minutes to open the lock without any sound, his new personal record and a miracle considering his shaking hands and the adrenaline rushing through his body.

The house was quiet, not a single sound interrupted the creepy quietness. It was dark, he wasn't able to see anything but shadows. He closed the door behind him, snuck inside and walked to the stairs. He was surprised by the entrance hall, not single piece of furniture was in it - just some pictures of the Holmes family. He could see the curls of a young boy, but didn't catch anything more. He was sure that the boy was Sherlock; maybe he'd have the chance to take a look at the pictures one day.

If Mycroft Holmes didn't kill him for entering his house without his authorization, of course.

The longer he stood in front of the stairs, the louder a sound got.

First, he wasn't able to put a finger on it; it was familiar, but somehow strange, not fitting in this atmosphere and this whole setting.

After a while, he knew what it was and he hurried upstairs, not caring about the sound of his steps on the old, wooden stairs.

Someone was crying.

Silently, only a hushed sound, but he still knew that he had to help. Whoever the crying person was, why he or she was crying, he would help. Somehow, if he was able to. At least he would try, his heart and his conscience told him to. A silent demand he was willing to obey.

The sounds came from the bathroom, no surprise there. But he was surprised that the door was open, giving him the perfect view of the person crying.

Mycroft Holmes.

The elder Holmes sat on the toilet, his eyes puffy and red because of the tears running down his cheeks. His sobbing was controlled - he appeared to be a man who needed to have control over everything, and a mess when he didn't have it - and was staring down at the floor, which was covered in a pool of tears.

And blood.

A lot of blood, coming from his wrists where at least ten cuts were, angrily catching his attention. They were fresh, blood still flowing from all over his arms, over his shirt, which used to be white, until it dropped on the floor. Trapped in some kind of trance-like condition, he stared at every single drop, hypnotized and shocked.

John had been right, Greg thought, John had been right, Mycroft Holmes was hurting himself, why, why.

His thoughts were uncoordinated, rushing through his brain. He should probably call an ambulance as fast as he could, as long as Mycroft didn't notice him and didn't try to stop him. Or John. Or Sherlock. Preferably both at the same time, John the doctor and Sherlock who could finally grow the balls to tell them what exactly was going on here.

He couldn't do any of the things he thought about. Blue-grey eyes were suddenly looking at him, tired and sad - the exact emotions he had seen in the warehouse in those beautiful and bright eyes - but not angry. Mycroft just nodded at him like a greeting, at least he still had enough energy to acknowledge the DI standing in front of him.

Greg could only stare, unable to do anything. He should help, he should run, he… he couldn't do anything. The shock paralyzed him completely; he was shaking and felt tears brimming in his eyes. Something inside him was breaking, the hope that John had been wrong and that his instincts had fooled him. Nothing of that hope remained.

"Good afternoon, Detective Inspector," Mycroft Holmes said suddenly, his voice was weak and shaking, his eyes were locked on Greg. He tried to hide his emotions, his expression blank, but his eyes destroyed the facade. "I'm surprised you were able to break in so quietly. I'm quite impressed, I have to admit."

He lowered his arm and took something that looked like a first aid kit. His shaking hands almost weren't able to open it, but he succeeded and began to patch himself up. With the blood gone, Greg was able to see several scars. Little ones, looking like the source had been a syringe or nails, big and long ones from cuts like the new ones. Some of the scars reminded Greg of the ones he had seen on someone who had been whipped. There was no spot on Mycroft's arm without a scar; Greg didn't want to see the rest of his body.

What the fuck had happened to this man?

"But of course I'm asking myself why I have the pleasure of calling you my houseguest," Mycroft continued, the words mumbled and too fast, he stumbled over his own words, tried to focus on them while he put some make-up on the scars to hide them. "Or how Sherlock would say it: Why did you break in, Detective Inspector? A question I'd quite like answered."

He tried to stand up, but failed; he almost slipped because of the pool, but managed to cling to the toilet before he hit the ground. Greg wanted to help him, but he didn't know if he should touch Mycroft – the posh man seemed to be nervous, freaked out. He'd lost control of the situation, Greg realised after he watched Mycroft move out of the bathroom and into the kitchen on the floor below.

Greg followed him silently, watched every step the politician took. He was weak, but refused to admit it. The need to control it, his body and Greg's reactions, was overpowering. Like everything was a screenplay and one of the actors decided to improvise.

Mycroft took a cup from the cupboard - obviously prepared for the aftermath of his actions - and drank a few sips, the shaking stopped but only because he was able to hide it. Greg lent against the fridge and waited until Mycroft sat down.

"I'm still waiting for your answer, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said. His voice was perfectly calm again, not a single trace of what he had done a few minutes ago. He was a brilliant actor.

Greg cleared his throat and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Don't you think we should talk about what you did in the bathroom before I broke in?"

Mycroft just smiled at him. "I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about, Detective Inspector."

He snorted at the politician and rolled his eyes. Of course the man would try to deny what had happened; he probably did it every time he had to cover something top secret up. Denying it happened until everyone forgot about it. That wouldn't happen this time, Greg would never be able to banish the memory of the bleeding and crying Mycroft Holmes out of his thoughts. It would haunt his dreams.

"Don't try to deny it," he said and pointed at the stairs, "The blood pool is still there and I'm sure the make-up isn't permanent. I've seen the scars, okay? I saw it and you can't make me believe that I was fooled."

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, his expression hadn't changed but Greg knew he would be frowning now without his mask. They glared at each other for a few seconds, both trying to find a weakness in the opponent.

"Why did you break in, Detective Inspector?" Mycroft asked calmly.

"I felt that something was wrong here. And I was right, absolutely right. Something **is** wrong and I will find out what and why."

He went to Mycroft's side, grabbed his arm and rolled the sleeves up before Mycroft could do anything to stop him. The scars were perfectly hidden; he couldn't see a single one, even though they had been breathtakingly red and aggressive, even though some of them seemed to have been quite old. Mycroft just stared at him, his teeth gritted and his face blank, but in his eyes, Greg could see resignation.

"That's an impressive trick," Greg whispered and moved his fingers over the wrists until he could feel the scars. "But you can't hide them."

"What do you want from me, Detective Inspector?" Mycroft asked and pulled his arm out of Greg's grasp.

"You didn't answer John's question back in the warehouse," Greg said. Mycroft's eyes darkened, he remembered. "I think I know why there was blood on the letter. John seemed to forget or he was too angry; I don't know. That doesn't matter now."

Mycroft moved backwards in his chair and crossed his legs. His face was blank again, his eyes cold and calculating. The only sign that he wasn't as calm as always was the twitching of his fingers, desperately trying to find something to cling to.

"You are aware of the fact that I could easily get you fired and that I could destroy your whole life with less than one call?" Mycroft raised his eyebrow at him and smiled his faked smile. Greg just laughed. "May I ask what's so funny, Detective Inspector?"

"Show off," Greg hissed and pointed at Mycroft with his index finger, "You could get my ex-wife killed, I don't care! You think I became a cop just because I can talk to families? Oh no, I'm a good cop, an excellent DI and because of that, my sense of justice is big. I've seen the scars and I won't stop until you stopped, you got that?"

"Why would you want to do that, Detective Inspector?"

Greg smiled down at Mycroft who frowned. "Why? Because Sherlock and John care about you and because I bloody want to help them."

For a few seconds, a bitter expression ran across Mycroft's face. Greg almost jerked back because of the sadness and bitterness shining in Mycroft's eyes, before the politician was calm as normal. He even smiled.

"I'm afraid you are mistaken, Detective Inspector," Mycroft stood up and looked down to Greg. "My brother doesn't care about me."

He left with a quick nod and a swung of his hand, like he would swing his umbrella if he would have it at this moment. Greg grinned as an idea crossed his mind. He waited until Mycroft was upstairs again, probably destroying the evidence of his actions, and took out his phone, to call John.

"Yes?" the army doctor said tiredly and yawned.

"Could you do me a favour, John?"

There was the sound of a rustling as a background noise. "Depends on what it is."

Greg grinned and looked at the stairs. "Would you bring me some stuff from my flat?"

"What for?"

"I'm sleeping at Mycroft's until he admits he has a problem."

* * *

><p>Thanks to SilentEyedKat for beta-reading this<p> 


	4. Everything comes into focus

Greg didn't see Mycroft for a few hours even as he was searching for a room to throw his things in. John came twenty minutes after the phone call, eyes red and puffy and fists bloody, probably from punching a mirror, and left him the things he needed.

The whole house was cold, it had an aura he couldn't name, couldn't put a finger on. It gave him goose bumps and he found himself more than once hearing something which wasn't there.

A cry, coming from a little child; the screaming of a man and a woman, something that sounded like a howl. His mind was mocking him constantly.

The first thing he did after practically moving in was search the entire house for anything Mycroft could hurt himself with. He found plenty of knifes, razor blades, needles and other things someone who wanted to hurt himself could do it with. With every piece he put in his bag, the feeling accompanying him since he'd seen Mycroft in the bathroom grew larger, a knot in his stomach and the feeling of fear and desperateness.

Every room he entered was clean, almost fastidiously so, without a speck of dust or any dirt covering the few pieces of furniture. The only furniture standing in each room were the necessary ones, in the bathroom a toilet, a shower and a washbasin; in the living room nothing but a couch, an armchair and a fireside.

Regardless where he went, he felt cold, alone and close to freezing to death.

He asked himself several times how someone could live in a place like this without getting paranoid, and lonely; but maybe that did happen to Sherlock's brother; Greg didn't know, the elder Holmes hid everything perfectly.

Greg had seen people breaking down before, his work sometimes showed him the cruel aftermaths of depression and loneliness, but not once had he seen someone who was as calm as the elder Holmes. Able to continually control himself, to act like he was okay.

If it wasn't for the direness of the situation, which could end with Mycroft Holmes' death, he would be impressed.

He sat down on the coach, feeling awkwardly like an intruder in this house and crossed his legs. What if Mycroft was about to kill him? He couldn't be sure if he'd found every hidden weapon - he was dealing with a Holmes, they didn't do normal - and maybe he would be the victim of Mycroft's wrath, ending as a corpse in a hole in the middle of the desert in Iraq with no one to remember him.

He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, desperately trying to warm himself.

His breath was visible as a little cloud floating to the ceiling; everything was old, cold, and heartless. Everyone would say it just was because Mycroft Holmes wasn't someone who collected keepsakes; Greg thought it mirrored the state of Mycroft's soul.

"Do you want me to start a fire in the fireside?"

Greg jumped from the couch and turned around, hands searching for his gun out of reflex. Mycroft was standing in the doorframe, hands crossed in front of his chest, but not in a defensive sort of way, more like he was just comfortable with doing so. Greg eyed him in the search for weapons, anything what could hurt him. Nothing. Not even the umbrella.

It almost looked odd.

"Excuse me…?" he stammered after minutes of staring, confusion, and calmness - the first two things coming from his side, the last one from Mycroft.

"I asked you if you want me to start a fire in the fireside, you are obviously freezing," Mycroft repeated and smiled down at him, pointed at the fireside and titled his head. "I ordered some beer for you since you are planning to stay here."

Greg was dumbfounded. "I… what…"

Any normal person would have laughed at him for behaving like an idiot. Mycroft just went to the fireside and made a fire, the crackling louder than usual because of the emptiness of the room.

"The clothes and bags in one of my empty rooms made your intentions very clear, Detective Inspector," Mycroft turned around to the fire, not completely so he still was able to see Greg - afraid of an attack or being hurt? - and watched the flames. "I ordered enough beer for two days."

"Why two?" Greg asked, finally able to speak again.

"You won't stay any longer."

Greg shivered as a wave of coldness hit him, the hairs on his neck standing up like he was facing the biggest danger in the world, a monster already leaping at him with its claws and fangs extended and ready to kill him. Only that this danger was a man. Still a dangerous one, though.

"Are you going to throw me out?"

Mycroft smiled again, a mysterious and dark smile causing Greg to take a step back. "Oh no, you are going to leave because you won't be able to save me from my non-existent pain and depression."

"I saw you cutting your arm open and I saw the scars. Stop denying it," Greg growled and crossed his arms in front of his chest, "I'm going to stay as long as it takes."

Mycroft raised his eyebrow and eyed him, probably deducing him. "If you can survive the emptiness and the voices mocking you."

"How do you know?" Greg asked surprised, but Sherlock's brother had already turned around and left the room, still watching Greg from the corner of his eyes. "Wait! I want an answer!"

Mycroft didn't bother stopping and went upstairs. Greg sat down on the couch again, the fire finally bringing some warmth into the room. He relaxed immediately, with Mycroft gone again, and rubbed his face. Why had he decided to stay here?

He must be suicidal.

A few minutes after Mycroft had left, beer was standing in the doorframe. He didn't know who had put it there, no sound had disturbed the silence he had found himself in, and he grabbed a bottle while sighing in relief.

A distraction from the aura here. He wasn't a man who believed in ghosts, in mysteries, and monsters coming from the afterlife; but if someone told him that this house was haunted, he would immediately believe it.

He sometimes imagined someone was standing behind him, a large shadow with claws and fangs, red-glowing eyes, and a big grin; but every time he turned around, almost jumping from the couch, there was nothing. He was alone in the room, the only sound he didn't imagine was his breath. There was no trace of Mycroft, it was like he had just disappeared.

At least it was warmer, the fire heated the room and he almost felt comfortable.

After a few hours, it was already dark outside, he decided to go up to 'his' room. He didn't expect to meet Mycroft on the way to it, but as he passed a door, the estate-owner sat in the room next to it, drinking tea out of a cup and sitting in front of an old desk, reading a book. It was the calmest he'd ever seen the politician.

That changed quickly, when he realized Greg was there.

Mycroft lifted his head as Greg made a noise while walking to his room, still in the seeing-range.

He let his book almost drop and his eyes widen.

He looked like he was about to jerk backwards, hands about to be lifted in front of his face.

But they didn't move, either of them.

Greg stared at Mycroft who looked up at him, eyes shining like the ones of a little child facing a nightmare, the rest of his face blank. He couldn't look away; it was hypnotising, those eyes brighter than normal, not cold. Scared. Surprised.

Mycroft cleared his throat and took his reading glasses off, fingers shaking while he gripped the cup and took a sip. Greg shifted and bit his lower lip. The window of the room was locked, pieces of wood covering it. It looked like someone wanted to prevent an attempt at flight. It looked old, maybe thirty years or even more. It smelled horrible, Mycroft didn't seem to care.

"Is there something I can do for you, Detective Inspector?"

Greg quickly shook his head and tried to adjust himself again. Mycroft smiled, even Greg could see it was faked. "I just… was about to go to… the room my stuff is in."

Mycroft nodded and put his glasses on again. Greg thought it suited him. "Do you have everything you need?"

The DI lifted his arm and showed the beer crate with a grin. "Yes, I have everything… are you okay?"

Mycroft seemed to be startled by this question. He blinked a few times, thoughts visible in his eyes; fast, uncontrolled, wild; before he nodded slowly. "Of course, Detective Inspector. Why shouldn't I be?"

Greg would have thousands of answers to this question, but decided it wasn't worth the trouble. Regardless of what he might say, Mycroft surely had a way to defer and to deny everything. He would never allow the elder Holmes to play tricks with his mind, he was here to help, not to be fooled. He turned around and was about to close the door of 'his' room, but stopped.

"Have a good night," he turned his head a bit and smiled at the ginger man. "Sleep well."

Mycroft frowned, but looked up from his book. "Thank you, sleep well, Detective Inspector."

Greg closed the door behind him and sunk down on the floor, back resting against the wall. The bottles fell down, but didn't break. The expression in Mycroft's eyes, was haunting him, the picture burned in his memory to never go away again, and as he lay down, closed his eyes and drifted into a light sleep, he still saw them.

Only in a child's face.

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

He woke up a few hours later, body aching for heat, shaking and shivering. He'd brought his sheets, but he still felt every brush of wind coming through the wall. Shadows were dancing on the walls and in front of the door, light shining through the small gap between door and floor.

He heard steps, probably coming from Mycroft, he had heard them during the whole night. It seemed that the owner of this estate didn't bother to sleep, it wouldn't surprise him seeing as the man was Holmes.

Greg didn't bother standing up, it was still dark outside and he had taken the week off; or more accurately been forced to by his superiors. But he turned around to look at the opposite wall. Like everything in the house, it looked old. It really needed a renovation, but it wasn't his business. Even in the darkness he could see the spots on the wall.

Some looked like there had been red paint on it, he thought about blood immediately and gulped, others like someone had thrown bottles at it. It was a total mess, the complete opposite of Mycroft's clean and posh appearance.

He asked himself why someone with a lot of money stayed in a house like this.

As quietly as he could, he stood up, sheets falling down from his naked chest to the floor. He just grabbed a shirt and thought about ways to make Mycroft admit his problem.

How could he do it? Mycroft had training, he was a politician and a Holmes; immune against bribing, against moral begging. Greg was going to need Sherlock and John to do this. Even with the sibling hatred between them, Sherlock must have seen something, must know about the suffering his brother was going through.

He tried to find his phone, but failed. It was too dark and if he'd turn the lights on, Mycroft would know he was awake. And therefore he would wonder what Greg was doing in there and he would hear if he called John or Sherlock.

It appeared that he didn't have a plan. Not in the slightest.

There was a knock on the door, but it wasn't opened. Greg went to open it and found a tray in front of it. Tea, coffee, and something to eat. He may not be welcome here, but Mycroft was indeed the most posh man Greg had ever met.

He took out his phone, called John, and began to eat. The food was delicious and the coffee tasted like he could never afford it. But he couldn't really enjoy it. This was clearly the house's fault. It made him think his food was poisoned and that he would die from a heavy cold.

"Yeah?" John's voice greeted him, tiredly yawning. "It's three o'clock, Greg."

"I'm sorry," he sighed and rubbed his face, "but I need help."

"With?"

He turned around to check the door and held his hand over his mouth just enough to mute his voice. He didn't want Mycroft to hear him through the wall and door. "Mycroft. I… this house, it's creepy. Have you been here?"

"No… why is it creepy? An old mansion with broken windows and spider webs?" John chuckled dryly and yawned. "He hasn't thrown you out yet?"

"No, he told me that I'm going to leave… tomorrow. And he denies everything, even if I saw him cutting his arms open and the scars."

There was silence. He could hear John's breath, far faster than normal. After a while, John cleared his throat. "He… so he really… oh my god…"

"Yeah," Greg ran a hand through his hair, "But… I surprised him as he was reading a book and he stared at me like I was going to… I don't know, rape him. There's something going on here. And this house confuses me."

"Why?"

"I hear voices, the whole time. Crying, screaming, a child and a man. I don't know, it's always cold in here, empty, loveless. He's lonely. There aren't even pictures or anything like that, everything is old and rotten like he doesn't care about the house but somehow can't leave it."

John spoke to someone in the same room. Greg heard the low voice of Sherlock, in his typical annoyed intonation. He couldn't understand, but he somehow knew Sherlock didn't care about his observations. As John spoke to him again, his voice sounded like he was worried.

"Sherlock told me it's their old family estate."

"Hold on," he almost jumped up and lent against the wall, "you're saying that this is the Holmes estate? It's far too rotten for that!"

"Maybe he can't leave it."

"Why shouldn't he? He has enough money to buy a new one, I'm sure."

He almost could hear John's shrug. "I don't know, I think you'll have to find out. Have you taken everything he could harm himself with?"

Greg nodded before he realised John couldn't see it. "Yes, I did, everything I could find. But I don't know if he could have hidden something where I couldn't find it."

Silence again, the smooth voice of Sherlock and John talking to each other. "Sherlock said look for hidden drawers in his fireside."

Greg hung up after he said goodbye to John. He sneaked out into the corridor. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen. It was quiet, almost deadly silent, and a shiver ran down his spine. But he quickly went downstairs into the living room, not without paranoid glances behind him every second, and directly to the fireside.

It took him five minutes to find the drawer, directly behind the place where the wood was stored. It was only a small drawer, but what he found made him shiver. A bloody shard, big enough to cut the throat of someone open in one motion, a picture, and a few needles.

His hands were shaking as he took the picture, his curiosity too strong to fight off the instinct.

He saw the estate, the Holmes family standing in front of it. Without Sherlock, though, maybe he hadn't been born yet. He looked at the young Mycroft and saw in the scarred eyes he'd seen earlier. And he saw scars.

And a fresh, new wound, bleeding and leaving a trace of blood on the boy's cheek.

"What are you doing?"

Greg turned around and jumped. Mycroft was standing in the doorframe. And he stared directly at the picture in Greg's hands.

Oh crap.

* * *

><p>Thanks to SilentEyedKat for beta-reading this.<p> 


	5. Such a beautiful lie

John didn't know what to do. Not for the first time in a few days he found himself staring at the wall of his room, thoughts and theories haunting him like a curse. Sherlock was still sleeping, the medication John had given him apparently had been strong enough, that combined with the lack of sleep it had finally knocked him out. Of course now, after Greg and his confrontation with Mycroft, he wished Sherlock was awake to answer his questions.

John had been sure his theory was correct. A man like Mycroft Holmes was always eloquent, elegant, and flawless in his behaviour and appearance. Someone like him just **wasn't** clumsy. Not Mycroft.

He cursed himself for not trying to touch the skin to check if something had been covered. He forgot to demand an answer and logical explanation to his question, for the blood on the letter. His anger had been too strong, clouding his mind and observational-skills.

On the way back from the warehouse, Greg had told him what he'd seen, the tensed reaction to John's motions, the fear shining in the normally cold eyes of the elder Holmes as John was so close to him, and touched him even after telling him he would.

Sherlock was right, John was an idiot.

He heard steps. Sherlock came in, only wrapped in a sheet and still tired, but clearly angry. His eyes were shooting daggers at John.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice colder than usual, "you drugged me. Why?"

John, after a moment of considering flight in his head, stood up from his bed and frowned. "Drugged you? Why should I've done that?"

Sherlock hissed angrily. "Don't try to deny it, I already analysed the remaining contents of my tea, now, tell-"

He stopped as soon as he saw the letter lying on the tiny table next to John's bed, still opened and the blood even visible from where the taller man was standing. John tried to grab it, but Sherlock was faster, he took the letter and glared at John.

"You've opened **my** letter?" he almost screamed, veins clearly pulsating on his throat and forehead. "You read it?"

John thought about his options. He could either try to get away, but trying to hide from an angry Sherlock in another room of their flat was something he considered suicidal and impossible. Denial wouldn't work, Sherlock probably already knew that John had done. The more John thought about this situation, the more he knew he was completely and truly fucked.

Maybe he should have written his will down, knowing Sherlock and the dangers he put himself in.

"Well, someone had to read them and you didn't seem to be doing it any time soon."

"You had no right to open this! It's my decision to either read or burn it!" Sherlock tore the paper apart into tiny pieces and threw them on the ground, directly in front of John's feet.

"You are an idiot! If you'd have opened it, you would have known that there's **blood** on it. Mycroft's blood!" Clutching his fists angrily, John stared into Sherlock's cold and lifeless eyes, tried to find any emotions in them, but failed. Sherlock didn't seem to care one bit. "He's probably hurting himself and you don't care?"

Sherlock snorted. "Why should I care?"

Anger rushed through John's body, an electric energy he couldn't control and, if he was honest with himself, didn't want to. He gripped Sherlock's arms and pulled him closer, his grip too strong to even give Sherlock the slightest chance to escape or break free. They stared at each other quietly for a few seconds, for John they felt like years.

"Whatever it was that happened in the past Mycroft apologises for it, I can't see why you continue to hate him so much!" The army-doctor shook Sherlock and ignored the taller man's angry scowl. "He's bloody hiding something and I'm pretty sure it's self-harm!"

"Don't make a fool out of yourself," Sherlock pushed John away from him, adjusting the sheet again.

John opened his mouth to say something, but the sound of his phone ringing interrupted him. Without looking away from Sherlock, he took it and raised it to his ear after looking at the caller ID, it was Greg.

"Greg, what is it?" he snapped, his voice angrier than he wanted it to be, shaking with fury. John sighed, rubbing his face. "I'm sorry for snapping at you. Is something wrong?"

Sherlock was about to say something, but John shut him up with an angry glare.

""Yes… I…" John raised his eyebrow and waited for an answer, which came after a few seconds of hesitation. "I have a feeling something bad is going on. With Mycroft. I wanted to ask you where his house is, I can't remember the address."

"Something wrong?" John repeated slowly, frowning, "What do you mean?"

"I've got a feeling. I have to check."

"Don't tell me Lestrade thinks there's something wrong too!" Sherlock growled angrily, but John had already left and ignored Sherlock's screaming after him. "He's too proud to hurt himself, it's obvious!"

"Shut up Sherlock!" John screamed and closed the door with a loud bang, leaning against the counter in the kitchen as he sighed and told Greg the address quickly, hanging up as Sherlock already came down to him, the pieces of paper being thrown in the trash.

"Why can't you see that you are wrong?"

John growled angrily. "Why can't you see that you're wrong?"

"Because I'm not," Sherlock suddenly was calm again, the cold person he hid his emotions behind, his glance sending shivers down John's spine, "I unfortunately know Mycroft well enough to know he's fooling you."

John sighed, enraged, trying to stay calm, and not to punch Sherlock with all the energy and experience he had. Which was hard, the cold and uncaring expression of his flat mate made him angrier than before, and the urge to punch him or to throw things around almost stronger than his control over his temper. Without giving him an answer, Sherlock left the kitchen and went into his room again, probably deleting this conversation like every argument they had.

He went upstairs as well, ignoring the angry glances coming from Sherlock as he passed his room. John went into the bathroom, looking at his reflection. Something wet was shining on his cheek, tears he realised as he lifted his hand and touched the spot, frowning. Had he been crying? Why? Of course he was worried about Mycroft, he cared for both Holmes even with the elder being cold and mysterious and Sherlock acting like a bastard every day, but crying?

Or was it because Sherlock was failing to see?

Normally, John was the one who saw, but didn't make conclusions like Sherlock; this time, it was the complete opposite. It was frustrating, to see evidence and to think he was right, but to stand alone in his opinion. Greg and John, both knowing something was going on, while Sherlock ignored it. A growl of frustration left John's mouth and, screaming without sound, he punched the closest thing. The mirror.

Pain shot through his body and he jerked backwards, baffled by his own actions. His knuckles bled, shards cutting through his skin, blood dripping down on the tiles, and the ground.

He suddenly felt tired, not like his body needed rest, but his mind. Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore his emotions in order to calm down, but failed. He couldn't stop being worried about Mycroft, being angry at Sherlock, and feeling like a complete idiot for not seeing this earlier. John groaned, rubbing his face and starting to clean his wounds as a phone rang. Greg, again.

"Yes?"

"Could you do me a favour, John?"

John threw the shards in the trash and sighed quietly. "Depends on what it is."

"Would you bring me some stuff from my flat?"

"What for?" John asked, raising his eyebrows in confusion. Stuff from Greg's flat? What was he planning?

"I'm sleeping at Mycroft's until he admits he has a problem." 

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

"You know what he always did, my **poor** brother?"

John looked up from the newspaper, knitting his brows in confusion. He had just come back from Mycroft's estate, though he hadn't seen the inside, Greg had opened the door and took everything. John didn't know why, but the DI had looked stressed, almost afraid of something or someone. Or maybe just more concerned, John hadn't been able to tell. But he knew something was going on and now, Sherlock had finally decided to speak again after almost an hour of silence.

"He always used people for his own. He manipulated everyone, including our parents. How much Father loved him, he always went to Mycroft's room and came out grinning later, happy about whatever had happened in there. Mycroft would never hurt himself, he would merely fake it to gain your concern and pity in order to manipulate you."

That didn't surprise him. He would have guessed that Sherlock would tell him again how silly their ideas were, that it was nonsense, Mycroft only wanting to have attention and pity he could use against them. John was sick of hearing those things, as if Sherlock was blind and couldn't see what was going on. It almost hurt, to see two brothers hating each other that much, one ignoring the obvious pain of the other just because of an event in the past.

"Sherlock", John stood up, trying to stay calm and took a few steps in Sherlock's direction, "I saw the fear in his eyes."

"Faked, obviously."

"He tensed as soon as I touched him."

"Every actor could do that, John."

John sighed frustrated and shook his head. "You don't want to understand, do you? You want to hate him, no matter what."

"I don't want to hate him, I do because I have reasons to do."

The doctor threw his arms up in the air, gesticulating wildly. "And why, huh? Because something happened. And I don't understand what it could be!"

Sherlock's expression was icy again, completely emotionless as the consulting detective turned around to leave again. John let him, not really in the mood to discuss it anymore. He hoped Greg would phone him if something happened, he really was concerned. Whatever Greg has seen, whatever made him decide to stay at the estate, it must have been something horrible.

John knew what it probably was, but his mind prayed that it wasn't true.

As a few hours later, he lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling trying to sleep, his phone rang, he groaned tiredly and answered, his voice slurred because of the lack of sleep.

"Yeah? It's three o'clock, Greg," he said after he looked on the clock, rubbing his eyes as they were about to close themselves in order to make him sleep.

"I'm sorry," Greg sighed, "but I need help."

"With?"

"Mycroft. I… this house, it's creepy. Have you been here before?"

Greg's voice was quiet, almost like it was muted. John stood up as silently as he could and went outside to make himself tea, he wasn't surprised to see Sherlock lying on the couch, in his typical pose to think, fingers folded like he was praying under his chin. John ignored him, but the cold and annoyed glance on his back felt like he was about to be stabbed.

"No… why is it creepy? An old mansion with broken windows and spider webs? He hasn't thrown you out yet?" John tried to sound funnier than he currently felt, Sherlock's glance the answer to it.

"No, he told me that I'm going to leave… tomorrow. And he denies everything, even if I saw him cutting his arms open and the scars."

John almost let the phone fall, his eyes getting wider. Oh god… his breath got quicker in shock and his hand started to shiver slightly, causing Sherlock to stand up and move to his side, titling his head. John just shook his head, clearing his throat to get something out.

"He… so he really… oh my god…"

"Yeah. But … I surprised him as he was reading a book and he stared at me like I was going to… I don't know, rape him. There's something going on here. And this house confuses me."

"Why?" John asked confused, ignoring the demanding tapping of Sherlock's foot on the ground.

Sherlock wanted to know what was going on, which surprised John. But he had to deal with it later, right now he had to talk to Greg. Jesus, Mycroft really was hurting himself… the hope that his idea hadn't been anything but a silly one was destroyed, finally. He had known it, deep inside his brain behind the naïve praying that it wasn't true and there really was a normal explanation.

"I hear voices, all the time. Crying, and screaming, a child and a man. I don't know, it's always cold in here, empty, loveless. He's lonely. There aren't even pictures or anything like that, everything is old and rotten like he doesn't care about the house but somehow can't leave it."

John lowered the phone and swallowed, covering it with his hand to mute what he was going to say to Sherlock. "The estate, did he buy it as old as it is now?"

Sherlock approached John, his expression cold, but in his eyes, John could see worry, shining brightly. "What is going on?"

"Answer Sherlock, please."

The dark-haired man ran a hand through his hair and frowned. "It's our old estate, the one we lived in when we weren't in France."

John nodded to him and talked to Greg again, telling him what Sherlock had just said.

Greg was confused, John heard movement as if he was pacing around in the room, his echo loud enough to make John wonder if there was anything at all in the room Greg slept in. Sherlock took John's tea and drank it, not looking away from the smaller man for one second, trying to burn holes in him just with his eyes. Demanding answers.

"Maybe he can't leave it," John said, not daring to turn his head, Sherlock's eyes hypnotising.

"Why shouldn't he? He has enough money to buy a new one, I'm sure."

John shrugged before he realised his mistake. He didn't know what, but something in his motions let Sherlock's eyes widen in shock and he took a few steps back, unbelieving and shaking his head once. John couldn't show mercy with him, as he already said, Sherlock would have to wait.

"I don't know, I think you'll have to find out. Have you taken everything he could harm himself with?"

If Sherlock hadn't been able to control himself now, John was sure he would have started to panic or cry now. John wasn't a psychologist, but he was pretty damn sure Sherlock realised that he had been wrong and John right. Greg saw it. Greg told him. There was no way someone would fake scars and risk injuries and infections just to get power over someone. Not even Mycroft would do that.

"Yes, I did, everything I could find. But I don't know if he could have hidden something where I couldn't find it."

John lowered the phone again, trying to stay calm because of Sherlock not being as focused as always. John could see the thoughts going on in his head, the way his eyes moved quickly from one side to the other as if he was reliving every memory, tried to find what he had missed the first time, signs, anything, something. The taller man put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed it.

"Sherlock, are there any hidey-holes in the estate where someone could hide razors, needles, or anything to harm themself with?" he asked softly and with a strong voice, "Stay calm, please. Greg needs our help now."

Sherlock took deep breaths in a tried to calm himself down, to hide the emotions again, but he failed, not used to something like that. He thought about John's question for a few seconds before he answered. "Only one in the fireside, I wouldn't know about more."

John told Greg and hung up, cupping Sherlock's face with his hands. "It's okay, Sherlock."

"It isn't!" Sherlock broke the contact and started to walk around in the room, his hands clutched to fists, his expression calm and concentrated again, "I always thought that the scars he had in our childhood were self-inflicted to gain attention, but now that I think about it, he always had new ones every day after Father took him to his room. Mostly at angles that no one could inflict upon themselves."

"Your father took him to his room?" John asked confused, an unpleasant idea crossing his mind and leaving him paralysed in horror.

"Almost every day in the evening. I always assumed they were going over lessons in their together, or that Father was giving Mycroft gifts. I was able to hear laughing sometimes, but only Father's since Mycroft never laughed." He stopped in the middle of his motions, a bitter grimace on his face. "Such a beautiful lie I created."

He sank down on a chair, his hands gripping the now-empty cup to have something to hold onto. John went next to him and laid a hand on his shoulder, not knowing what was going on, but not daring to ask.

"I was jealous that our Father spent so much time with Mycroft. I hated Mycroft for taking away Father from me and for being taken away from me on his own, god - stupid, stupid! In my eyes, Father gave Mycroft gifts, was proud of whatever he did and in his room, there were gifts waiting for him, sweets and what-do-I know… what happened…"

Sherlock looked up to John, his eyes begging. He looked lost, completely immersed in self-hatred, shame, angst, and fear. His body was shaking, he was pale. Without thinking much about it, John wrapped his arms around him, stroking the soft curls.

"What have I done?" Sherlock asked quietly, his voice shaking, "I pushed him away from me and didn't see what he was doing to himself…"

"He hid it," John stopped himself from kissing Sherlock's forehead, "it wasn't your fault."

"I was jealous… so naïve to think that the screams were screams of joy, when I had been younger, I heard crying and thought it were tears of happiness, I was always so angry… I convinced myself of a lie, I claim to be the most observant man in the world and yet I failed to see that my brother is broken…"

John felt tears soaking his shirt as Sherlock buried his face in John's shoulder, the sobs making his heart twitch. They sat there for hours, Sherlock silently crying and John afraid of the truth lying underneath the walls Mycroft had built.

And knowing, in order to save him, Greg would have to break Mycroft apart. Completely.

* * *

><p>Thanks to all my lovely reviewers and the people who are following this :)<p>

And thanks to SilentEyedKat for beta-reading this.


	6. A child who just won't let it go

„_Stand straight."_

„_Try to smile, Mycroft, we want this picture to look good."_

_A handkerchief carefully tried to clean his face of blood, hands adjusted his clothes. The sun shined down on them, illuminating the whole area. The man with the camera ran around, trying to make sure they weren't stand directly in front of the light, moving fast and quick with sure, strong motions of his hands. A heavy hand rested on Mycroft's shoulder, long, bony fingers squeezing it tightly._

_As he looked up, and into his father's eyes._

_Cold, and blue with a slight shading of grey, they stared intensely down at him with this calm, friendly smile. It didn't reach his eyes. They were dead, like the ones in corpses Mycroft sometimes saw in his books, wide-open with no emotions in them. Demonic, devilish, and scary. No one else noticed._

_It was as if all the servants were blinded and fooled, consumed by the friendly and calm fog filling the air whenever Father entered a room. He always hid his hands, trying to hide the red knuckles and bruises that were caused by the shards of bottles whenever he decided to punch with them. No one saw the monster behind the angelic face, with those calm and posh words._

_Mycroft had already realised how easy it was to fool people._

_Hiding everything behind a mask, that was what people did on a daily basis. Saying words they didn't mean, with their true intentions hidden behind gestures they tried to act convincing, those tiny and important details invisible for other people._

_Human beings liked to be fooled. They **wanted **to be fooled, to be toyed with and to never understand the truth behind those false words, those poisoned tongues, and smiles._

_If he has learned one thing from his father, it was lying and hiding brought the desired results._

_He currently felt like crying, like hiding under his bed. Not hearing his father's breath so close to him, not feeling the pulse and the heartbeat and especially not hearing the laugh, and smelling his scent. It made him sick made his stomach turn and it made it hard to resist the urge to run._

_He was six years old and therefore strong enough to resist and to hide._

_The adults thought he was too young to know how to, but he hid it. He smiled even with the pain coming from the cut on his cheek, his mother and everyone else thought he had been playing with shards and cut himself being a clumsy little child, and stood there in his suit, the umbrella in his left hand, Father's hand over his own to hold it._

_He smiled despise the fear, despise the fact that the hair on his neck stood up as his father got closer, his body touching Mycroft's for a few seconds, a shiver of angst running through Mycroft's. He smiled in the camera as the man told him to, the flash blinding him for a few seconds._

_Seconds in which he knew, whenever he would see that photo, he would see the face of his father instead of his own. He had the demon's eyes, the same cheeks and nose, and the same mimicry in this moment._

_He heard the laughing of his father as they were allowed to move again, his parents walking away to see the picture. Mycroft stood there, ignoring the dropping liquid coming from the cut, running over his cheek and dropping on the former white collar of his shirt._

_He clutched the umbrella, afraid to let go._

_Not wanting to._

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

Greg watched in horror, as Mycroft's eyes got wider until they were almost not visible, but the DI felt like every single one of Mycroft's movements was visible to him like words written on a page, and almost fearful. Even from this distance, he could see what the politician was looking at, or rather, who he was looking at. His own, tinier figure in the picture.

Moreover, just as the unmoving child, Mycroft gripped his umbrella, his knuckles white and visible, the hand shaking slightly.

Greg had seen pure fear before, but never that well hidden everywhere but in the blue-grey eyes. Those eyes burning holes in him, leaving him scared and wanting to run away and to embrace Mycroft at the same time, to tell him he was safe and nothing could harm him.

Fear rushed through Greg's veins. Whatever happened, whatever was wrong, he just hoped his theory wasn't right. That those ideas haunting his mind weren't real, just paranoia and maybe too many drama movies in the past few days. Maybe John's fear had spread and now Greg was the one having irrational fears.

It was silent, the only sound coming from the fire in the fireside, both men not moving. Greg held his breath, not knowing what to do. Mycroft stared at the picture and fought against his instincts, chaos and emotions visible in his eyes.

"May I ask you what you are doing there, Detective Inspector?" asked Mycroft, his voice perfectly calm, cold and icy, causing a shiver to run over Greg's spine.

Within a blink, the emotions were gone, hidden behind a mask, so perfectly hidden behind walls, but scratching on the stone and wanting to break through. Every now and again breaking holes in the wall, making Mycroft break apart slowly, everything visible in his eyes. How had he managed so well over thirty years? Why had no one notice it, why not Sherlock or anyone from Mycroft's work?

Greg felt rage, fire burning inside his veins. He gritted his teeth and tried to hide it, but Mycroft noticed it of course.

He took a few steps back, clearly both surprised and shocked by Greg's reaction. Nevertheless, he didn't run away, even if he looked like he wanted to. Maybe he had enough control or knew he couldn't without making Greg suspicious. He was hiding behind an invisible wall made of control, suppression, and physical pain to banish the emotional responses.

"I don't like to repeat myself, Detective Inspector," Mycroft's cold voice sent shivers down Greg's spine. "What are you doing here?"

"I just wanted to take everything away you could hurt yourself with."

Obviously surprised by Greg's honesty, Mycroft looked up from the picture to meet the DI's eyes.

"I fail to see how it should be possible to hurt myself with wood, Detective Inspector."

"It's possible, believe me. And no, don't even try to give me the speech about how detached you are and that I am insane enough to hallucinate about you cutting yourself. John knows, Sherlock knows. We won't just turn around and ignore it."

He took a few steps into Mycroft's direction, instinctually keeping his posture relaxed, making himself tinier to give Mycroft the feeling of safety. Strangely, it seemed to work; Mycroft's hand slowly stopped clinging unto his umbrella as if it was the last thing keeping him alive.

"I will help you, whatever happened."

For minutes, there was only silence. Greg could hear Mycroft's breathing, too fast, and too heavy, and in his eyes something starting to shine. Was it… hope? He couldn't describe it. A soft light illuminating the former almost dead eyes, only a spark but visible for a second. Greg stared into Mycroft's eyes, mesmerized by this light. Where did it come from? What did he have to do to make it stay forever?

But then, it was gone again.

Mycroft's eyes were suddenly cold again, the formerly relaxed body tensed strong enough to make Mycroft's hands shake slightly around the handle of his brolly. Despite that and the sad feeling in Greg's heart at seeing the hope gone again, the policeman smiled.

"Would you please give me back the photo?" Mycroft asked and reached out to take it, clutching his fist around it as soon as Greg had given it to him, "Thank you. I will be gone until five o'clock in the afternoon, Detective Inspector, please feel free to order anything you want and to use my money, I insist. You are my guest, after all."

No, Greg wasn't. He had come into the man's house, took one of his rooms and demanded to get involved into the personal problems he obviously had kept so long from himself. There was nothing that could make Greg feel like a guest, not Mycroft's politeness, nor the breakfast he had eaten. He felt like an intruder. Slowly breaking Mycroft's emotional walls apart just to make him confess, just to get a good result in the end.

What was his aim? What was he here for? He wanted to help Mycroft, he couldn't just ignore what he had seen or the ideas spinning in his head. He would never forget the memory of Mycroft cutting himself. Would never be able to delete the haunted and terrified eyes out of his mind. The longer he stayed here, the deeper he would be dragged into this mess. This terrible, dark mess involving blood, involving things he normally would never want to know.

But the question was… why did he help Mycroft?

He had seen people who had harmed themselves before and never decided to break into their houses to help them. Yes, of course he had always suggested they get help from a psychologist; but out of instinct - and his experiences with Sherlock - he knew Mycroft would never see one, not even speaking of opening up to him.

Because that would be the hardest part of this. He might be able to give the Holmes a better way to cope with the pain, instead of cutting himself. His body would probably heal very quickly, but it was his soul that Greg was worried about. Greg didn't know how far the damage went, but if it had started in the politician's childhood, it could be broken. Maybe even beyond repair. What could a man like Greg do to help? He wasn't a psychologist; he didn't know how to treat someone who probably had been through hell and worse.

Crap, what had he gotten himself into?

Mycroft cleared his throat, harshly dragging Greg out of his thoughts. The latter blinked, tried to not be embarrassed because he had been staring at Mycroft for a very long time. The politician just raised an eyebrow and left after saying goodbye, the sound of a car disturbing the silence of the estate.

Greg stood there for several minute, not knowing what to do. The bloody shard and the needles were still in his hands. He went upstairs and hid them in his backpack, hesitating. It was too early in the morning, the timing probably not right, but there was no time and no space for thoughts like that. The matter was urgent, so he took out his phone and called John again.

It took John a few minutes to answer the phone. Greg could hear crying in the background, mumbled words without any sense or coherence. For a second, he imagined it was Sherlock's voice, that Sherlock was crying, but Greg pushed that thought away quickly. Sherlock Holmes never cried, not if he wasn't trying to fool someone.

"Mycroft won't be back until five. I know there are no cameras in here, I searched and even used a program on my phone to make sure of it. I… I need your and Sherlock's help, we need to cooperate if we want Mycroft to admit anything."

"Should we come over?"

"Might be better. Sherlock could try to deduce things now that he knows what to look for."

Ten minutes later, the two inhabitants of 221B were sitting on the couch in the living room, Greg standing in front of them with the bag in his hands. Sherlock's eyes were red, his cheeks wet and his lower lip trembling like his hands. Greg had never seen him so emotional before, not with the knowledge that it wasn't faked. But this was real emotions, real suffering, and real worry. There was something human in Sherlock after all, and it made Lestrade smile encouragingly at Sherlock.

"Here's the bag with all the things I found with which he could hurt himself." Greg opened the bag and let the contents fall down on the floor. All three men were looking at it. Razors, knives, several syringes, and other things one could easily hurt himself with. John swallowed, Sherlock fought against the tears. "He took the photo, I would have shown it to you otherwise."

"Describe it."

Greg looked to Sherlock who was folding his hands and pressed his fingertips against his chin, eyes fixed on the things on the ground.

"Well… it was in front of the manor. Mycroft was probably younger than seven. You weren't born yet I'd say. Sunny day, nothing interesting, a few clouds in the sky."

"Trivial."

John rolled his eyes, but stayed quiet, standing up to take the 'weapons' and look to see if he could find any proof for what they had been used for. Sherlock stared at Greg, silently waiting for him to continue and start with the interesting part. Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Mycroft was in the middle, between your father and your mother. He had a brolly in his… right hand, yes, but both hands were clutched tightly around the handle, I were able to see his knuckles. He wore a suit. Just like your father did. Mycroft was smiling, but in his eyes, I saw fear. The same kind of fear I saw when I surprised him in his room and he stared at me earlier, I told John about that. Anyway," Greg sighed again, sitting down in the free armchair and folding his hands over his lap while leaning forward, "he had a bloody wound on his cheek."

"How big, deep, angle?" This time John asked, having looked up with a surprised and thoughtful frown. Sherlock's foot was tapping on the ground in a rhythm only the consulting detective seemed to understand. He looked like he wasn't with them anymore, only listening and trying to find evidence in his memories. "Did it look like it had been inflicted by a knife?"

"No… no, more like scratches, quite deep. I can't remember the angle though…"

Sherlock suddenly looked at Greg again, eyes furious. "My brother is hurting himself and you can't remember something as important as the angle? I have to know what has done this harm - nails, claws… no claws is highly unlikely, Mycroft never liked cats and never let them near him, so nails probably but I have to see the picture… - and in which angle they have been caused. It's important, Lestrade, can't you see it with the tiny brain of yours? I need to know how big the scratches were and if they were done by nails, whose fingers? A man's, a woman's and why. Was the person standing next to him, in front of him or even had him down on the ground, how long it took the person to cause wound and wh-"

John stopped Sherlock in his rambling with a hand covering the detective's mouth. Sherlock blinked several times, slowly getting back to the point where he could control himself and John could take his hand away from Sherlock's mouth.

Greg felt pity. It was obvious that Sherlock tried to comfort himself with deductions, tried to cling unto the last parts of sanity he had left inside the ruins of his cold behaviour. Greg didn't have to have witnessed the breakdown he knew Sherlock blamed himself. For not having seen it, for not having wanted to, for probably even making it worse.

"Maybe there's a copy of it. We could try to find out when it had been taken. And maybe we can find out if it had been like this before, I mean, Mycroft already faking every emotion and fearing something. Someone, to be precise."

"We think it was Sherlock's and Mycroft's father," John rubbed his hands and wet his lips, "Sherlock told me he took Mycroft at least once every day into his room and he heard his father laughing. But never Mycroft and Mycroft always had new scars afterwards."

Greg frowned. "Laughing?"

"Mycroft never laughed." Sherlock said while looking down on his hands, his fingers twitching and clutching his fists before he opened them again, "He always faked it to appear normal and human and so happy. But I knew it was faked. He told me."

"He told you?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to find the correct words in his mind, hidden in the darkest corner of his mind like everything Mycroft has said. He needed to relocate it, everything could be useful. "_Every time you are happy, you remember how sad you are going to be. And it breaks your heart. Because what's the point of being happy now if we are going to be sad later? The answer is, of course, because we are going to be sad later. So do yourself the favour of not being happy, Sherlock, because it won't take long until someone or something destroys it again and leaves you broken and sad..._ Those were his words after I asked him why he never showed true happiness. And his voice…"

Sherlock suddenly stood up, pacing through the room and gesticulating wildly. "It was afraid, but concerned. Yes, I remember his intonation, it had been sad and his voice slightly cracking. Tears in his eyes, but he blinked them away and I paid no attention to it back then. There was a new scar on his chin, but the rest of his body hidden beneath long-sleeved shirts. Now that I think about it, I have never seen him wear anything showing his arms. He never wore a short sleeved shirt, nor did he wear any short pants and never undressed himself before me or anyone else."

The consulting detective stopped and his fingers making a motion as if he was grasping something. John and Greg watched him, their hearts squeezing painfully as they saw new tears shining in Sherlock's eyes, the whole posture of the taller man showing his sadness.

"And of course," he whispered, not looking at the two other men in the room as he spoke, "his umbrella, the only thing he always brought with him no matter where he was going. I once took it to see his reaction. I have never seen him so scared and insecure before in my whole life. He never lets it go, he wouldn't."

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><p>First, I apologise for the lack of uploads. I promise I will try to do a regular amount of uploads without such a big gap in between. Thank you for all your lovely reviews!<p>

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><p>Thanks to SilentEyedKat for beta-reading this.<p> 


	7. Swim with these sorrows

Allow me to say a few words as an apology before I let you read this chapter. I am so sorry it took me so long once again, but there is a good reason for it. My last beta-reader left me, so I had to search for a new one - which I now have found. Yet this chapter isn't corrected or beta-read yet - I'll replace it with the corrected one as soon as it is done - because my beta-reader is correcting a 20k-words oneshot I have written.

But I had to upload it now, because - after several messages and reviews you wrote me, begging me to continue - I don't want you to wait anymore. So, here it is, chapter seven, and a promise to not let you wait this long ever again. I promise.

Have fun with this chapter and ignore the spelling mistakes - they will be edited soon!

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><p>"Is there a story behind the brolly?", John asked after a while in which neither of the men had said anything. Greg had been staring at Sherlock who - not like his usual, calm self - still was pacing through the room, muttering incoherent things under his breath. "Had it been a gift, did he buy it on his own?"<p>

Sherlock just shrugged and stopped in his motions. "I have never seen him without it. My earliest memory of him included his brolly."

Greg ran a hand through his hair and made a huffed sound, close to a sigh. "So, let us make some suggestions. Ideas... chimaeras, anything. What makes this brolly so important to him?"

The consulting detective turned to Greg and raised his eyebrows at the older man, snorting. "Don't you think paying to something as unimportant as a brolly is inappropriate?"

"Comes from the man who had no fucking clue that his older brother was cutting himself."

Greg only realised the harshness of his words as both Sherlock and John were staring at him. Sherlock looked twisted, not knowing whether to give a rude reply or to agree. The DI gulped as he saw so many emotions running visibly and wildly through Sherlock's eyes. Guilt, shame, anger and worry - Greg would have never guessed that the younger Holmes was able to express such sentiment.

"I'm sorry", he whispered as an apology and lowered his glance as he saw Sherlock's emotional pain, "That was absolutely wrong to say."

Sherlock shook his head. "You are right", he said quietly and sat down on the ground in front of the fireside. He seemed to be lost in thoughts or memories. "I of all people should have noticed and yet... I'm the last."

"You were angry at him for something", John interrupted softly, letting one of his hands rest on Sherlock's shoulder who unconsciously leant into the touch, "It wasn't your fault."

Greg raised his eyebrow. "Angry at him?"

Of course he had noticed the way the Holmeses were interacting with each other - even a blind man would have been able to at least feel the tenstion flickering in the air around them. Greg always thought it was normal for two geniusses. Or that they maybe hated the fact that both were so similar even though Sherlock obviously tried to bring as many differences between his brother and himself.

But anger? For what? Because of how superior Mycroft's intellect was to Sherlock's? Thousand of thoughts rushed through Greg's mind, but none seemed to fit. All were so childish...

But he had to keep in mind that Sherlock often behaved like a child stuck in the body of a grown-up.

Even John didn't seem to know the answer, the policeman and the doctor both looking at Sherlock who sighed.

"I've been under the impression that he stole our father's attention to completely have him for himself." Sherlock shook his head as if he couldn't believe what he had assumed, now that they all knew the truth. Or at least thought they did. "He always has been with Mycroft. And whenever our father wasn't, he worked or was away celebrating with his own colleagues. I practically never saw him."

Sherlock paused and swallowed, staring into the flames dancing like twisted demons. "But the main reason I've been angry at him was that he left from one day to the other. He went to university and only returned for my birthday or Christmas, even after he finished studying. It felt like betrayal."

Greg narrowed his eyebrows thoughtfully. "Then why does he live here? Because what you described seemed to be a flight. Why coming back?"

John scratched one side of his face. "A matter of habit?", he suggested and looked down on Sherlock, "It's a quite common reaction that victims of abuse... at least we assume it had been abuse... either return to the person who did it to them or to the place."

"Father's dead."

"Then he lives in there because he still thinks he deserves it."

Sherlock lauged dryly and rubbed his face, burying it in his hands. "Mycroft would be smart enough to not believe that."

"If a child is raised up with the belief that a certain group of people are bad, he or she will believe it just because the parents told him or her", John explained, "if your father raised Mycroft under the belief that he deserves punishment, then I daresay he believed it. Because the words of one's parents are rules and the truth. There's absolutely no reason for you not to believe it."

Greg nodded, being able to confirm that. He had seen so many victims of abuse believe what their parents had told them, despise all the therapy and support they got from other people who tried to convince them that they were wrong.

"They blame themselves most of the time", Gregory said quietly, catching John's and Sherlock's attention once again, both men being silent, "Even when they grow up, they carry a terrible burden made not only by the pain someone they trusted - their parents, who are supposed to be the only ones you can trust from the beginning on - but also self-hatred."

Sherlock frowned, rubbing his palms together and narrowing his eyebrows in concentration. "I should have opened the letters. He's been sending them to me since he had left for University, but I have never opened them. I would have been able to tell how long he has been cutting himself."

"We need a plan. We can't allow him to go on like this, one day he'll cut too deep and with no one here he would die."

John's words fell like a thick fog suddenly falling over the three men. The imagination of finding Mycroft dead was shocking enough to make them all go silent, all lost in their thoughts. Sherlock's posture spoke of sorrow and pain, shoulders sunken down and whole body tiny, almost vulnerable. It wasn't hard to see how much this was affecting him, the weight of this whole drama and chaos heavy on his shoulders.

Gregory felt the same, and he wasn't related to Mycroft, wasn't probably one of the many causes for the cutting and the depression. Sherlock was blaming himself, it was obvious and hurt Gregory's heart, made it sing in empathy and pity for the younger Holmes.

"I've always seen him as some kind of god. No one could hurt him, no one could touch him. I hated him for that, for being untouchable and so far away from me and my petty problems", Sherlock whispered, taking a deep breath, "I can't let him die. He helped me through my addictions, forced me to get clean and supports me with his money and his influence. I never thanked him for that."

The DI's glance fell on the consulting detective once more, after staring on the razors and needles lying on the table. The situation was urgent, he was perfectly aware of that. It couldn't be good for the body to loose so much blood so often. He had no idea how often Mycroft hurt himself, or if it always was as bloody as the time Gregory had witnessed, but it didn't surprise him anymore how pale Mycroft was.

So much blood loss, and so many scars, some permanent and never fading. They would forever scar Mycroft, mark him as someone who had lost control after desperately fighting for it.

He blinked.

_Control_.

This was about control, somehow.

"Sherlock, your father, how was he towards you and your education? Was he more the bossy type of father?", Gregory asked, eyes wide as he stared at Sherlock who blinked, thinking about it, "Maybe this is about control. Mycroft feels out of control, so he hurts himself, because he can directly control where he cuts, when he does it, how, how often… this is somehow part of it."

"I don't know", Sherlock sighed and ran his thin fingers through his hair, gripping it desperately, "Mycroft always seemed to be in control in my eyes. He talked about wanting to become a politician, about wanting to go to Eton or Oxford, but…" He jumped on his feet, closing his eyes and making a few waves with his hand.

Gregory frowned and was about to ask what the hell he was doing, but John shook his head and gestured him to be silent. For several moments, nothing happened. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, the fire making shadows dance over his features, illuminating his pale face with reddish light. Greg leant backwards and tapped with his fingers on his knee, waiting impatiently.

It took Sherlock seven minutes and forty-five seconds, Gregory had stared on the clock on the wall, to do whatever he had been doing, but he suddenly turned around to the other two men and opened his eyes in a beat.

"I always assumed it were his decisions. But I remember his glance. His eyes were dead, cold, sad. He had tried to smile and to appear enthusiastic, but had never really been. My brother has never shown genuine emotions, Lestrade, especially not when he talked about his future and the career he wanted to make."

"So…", Gregory began, rolling his shoulders, "Let's just imagine what happened. Your father controlled everything Mycroft did, apparently. He chose his schools, his university and the job Mycroft would have as an adult, correct?"

Sherlock nodded, sitting down on the ground again and rubbing his eyes. "Correct."

"Did Mycroft have friends? Classmates he brought home now and then to learn with, or did he go out to meet them, to play or have fun?"

"He never had fun. Most of the time he has been with me, running with me through the garden and doing whatever he could to please me. He even cut open his arm once to give me some blood to experiment with." A somehow happy smile spread out on Sherlock's features, and for a moment, he looked as if everything was fine. As if the whole chaos with his brother never had happened, he appeared… human. This expression, however, disappeared again, and he bit his lower lip until it started to bleed. "It was like he didn't care what he had to do, he did everything I wanted from him to keep me busy."

John sighed, folding his hands. "Perhaps… maybe he wanted to keep you busy so you would be safe from your father? When you were, as you said, out in the garden almost the whole time, and your father was inside when he wasn't working, Mycroft could have done everything to give you the childhood he never had by taking you as far as possible away from your father?"

Gregory frowned at the idea, but after seconds of consideration, he nodded. "Good, so this had been going on since his childhood. He has been pretty young on the picture. Your father abused him, then you came into the family and Mycroft did everything in his power to keep your father's attention on himself. By distracting you and letting your father do whatever he wanted to."

Sherlock let out a long sigh, taking one of the razors and turning it around in his hand. He appeared to be lost in thoughts, not here but in his past. Gregory felt the urge to take him in his arms and to comfort the younger man, to tell him everything would be alright and that he would be fine. But he would never lie to Sherlock - and he had no idea if it would be fine.

Currently, he doubted it. Mycroft was so perfectly in control of the situation, there would be no way the three of them would find a way to help him. To get through those thick walls of emotionless and numbness, only occasionally broken down by a breakdown like the one Gregory had witnessed.

A feeling of bleakness made Gregory sigh quietly, rubbing his face with his hands and shaking his head.

"What about your mother?", John suddenly asked, causing Gregory and Sherlock to flinch in surprise about the suddenly broken silence, "Did she ever show any signs of knowing about it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "She and father always gave the impression of a perfect, married couple. They slept in different bedrooms, and only kissed or acknowledged each other's presence when we had guests or when the servants were around."

"Your servants, has no one ever shown a sign of knowing what was going on? Has no one mentioned hearing crying or sobbing, maybe groaning or screaming in pain? God, Sherlock, I saw the scars, they looked so nasty and that after so many years!"

Once again, Sherlock shook his head. "No one. Or they didn't tell me. Everything appeared to be so perfect and beautiful." He snorted. "It was so boring. Nothing happened to me or the family, no sudden deaths, no drama, nothing. Little did I know what Mycroft went through."

"What did I go through, Sherlock, pray to tell?"

No one had noticed Mycroft entering the room. Gregory hadn't heard any footsteps, nor had heard the door being opened, a car coming - _nothing_. Mycroft had experience in being silent, Gregory thought, his stomach turning at the thought of what he had used those skills in his childhood for. All three men turned their heads towards Mycroft, who was standing in the doorframe with his brolly in his right hand, in the other a few paper files.

Sherlock stood up, approaching his brother with a blank expression. Gregory and John stayed where they were, not wanting to interrupt this moment between the two brothers. Mycroft raised his eyebrow at Sherlock, who stopped a few inches away from the elder, both staring in each other's eyes.

Suddenly, Sherlock lifted his hand, turning it to offer Mycroft his palm. With confusion, Gregory watched Mycroft copy the action, not once breaking the eye contact. Sherlock's fingers wrapped themselves around Mycroft's wrist and again, Mycroft copied the gesture. Whatever they were doing, it wasn't the first time they did it.

"You know exactly what I mean, Mycroft", Sherlock said, tapping something on Mycroft's wrist with his index finger while speaking.

Gregory's eyes went wide as he realised what they did. Morse code. He had once heard John saying that Sherlock had been tapping in an irregular rhythm on his knee as Mycroft and Sherlock had talked to each other. It didn't take the deduction skills to know that they were having a conversation in both spoken words and Morse code, whatever they were talking about, they didn't want John and Gregory to hear it.

"I'm afraid I do not, brother-dear, please enlighten me."

Mycroft lowered his glance on his wrist, waiting until Sherlock had tapped his message, then began to tap on Sherlock's wrist with his fingertip. It was a curious sight, to watch them standing in front of each other, talking and tapping in Morse code. Wouldn't the situation have been so serious, then it would have been interesting.

Just like John, Gregory tried to figure out what it was what they were tapping. His Morse code-knowledge was limited, he only knew how to blink S.O.S. and a few curses he had been taught by a friend of his. It was hard to follow the quickly tapped words, he understood nothing while he fully concentrated on the tapping - how were Sherlock and Mycroft even able to tap _and_ talk?

Sherlock let his hand sink down as Mycroft stopped, both taking a step away from each other. The younger Holmes had a sad expression on his face, tears shining in his eyes. "I'm so sorry", he whispered, almost not audible for Gregory nor John.

But Mycroft had understood, apparently. He smiled, but Gregory saw that it was faked. It didn't reach his eyes which were cold, blank. Gregory unconsciously compared them to the eyes of a puppet, staring at his brother who returned to his place on the ground.

"There is nothing to be sorry for, Sherlock", Mycroft said softly - at least in comparison to his usual voice - then turned his head in Gregory's direction, "If you'd excuse me again, I have to go into my office now."

The elder Holmes left, leaving Sherlock, John and Gregory alone once again. Sherlock waited for several minutes before he turned to Gregory, narrowing his eyebrows. "You can't let him out of sight when he is here. Please, Lestrade, I have the feeling that he won't be able to keep on living like this…"

"You realise that he hates me?"

"He doesn't hate you, Lestrade. He hates persons who interfere with his routine and invade his personal bubble."

Gregory nodded, folding his hands and letting them rest on his lap. "Which I do. What did you talk with him about in Morse code?"

Sherlock smirked. "Nothing of importance, I only asked if it was true what you said and he said no, of course. I knew that he would say that, though." He took his left hand, which he had hidden in his pocket since the conversation with Mycroft, out and showed what he held inside it.

Gregory's eyes went wide in surprise, and John shook his head with a slight smile. Sherlock held the picture Mycroft had taken from him in his hand, carefully smoothing it out with his hands to properly look at it.

"You stole the picture back", Gregory stated and blinked, smiling as Sherlock beamed at him proudly, "Fantastic."

"That's John's part." Sherlock looked at the photo, wetting his lips in concentration. His fingertip trailed over it, stopping at the figure of his brother. Almost softly, gently, he let it move over Mycroft's head, then pointed at the bloody scratch on the other's cheek. "Nails. The person… I'd say an adult, male. The angle looks as if the person had been above Mycroft, probably had leant down."

"Your father?"

Sherlock nodded and looked up, his glance meeting Gregory's, both equally concerned. "Yes, father."


End file.
